After the Swordfight is Over
by DaftPenguinofDoom
Summary: After the Fight is Over, After the end of morn, After the fighters' leaving, After the stars have fall'n, Many a heart is bleeding, if you could read them all, Many the hopes that have vanished, after the fall.
1. After the Crossing of Swords

'Wishing you were some how here again'

Very angsty

The grave laid open. He had freshly dug it. The grime was still on his hands and under his fingernails. The smell of wet dirt filled his nostrils. Sticky blood stained his shirt, crimson and warm. It dripped on the wet snow, making odd contortions and patterns. He hoisted up the body and looked up at the old grave yard clock. 12:00. It stroked once. He dumped the body into the grave. It stroke again. The death toll was sounding. It stoked its third. She cried harder. It tolled once more. He turned to look at her. It stroked the fifth. He sneered. It struck again. Just like a woman to cry over someone she doesn't even love. It rang yet again. Well curse the fool. It struck again. He picked up the shovel. It struck again. His shovel struck the ground. Clang. Scrape. The toll resounded once more throughout the graveyard. He threw the dirt hard down on the body with arms and legs at odd angles. It finished this requiem with a last deep bellied clang.

He glanced up at the clock once more and threw down another shovelful of dirt. Her sobbing softened to hiccups.

Now it was time. What better time for a funeral than at midday? He shoveled on and she rose and walked towards the grave, tear-stained and blotchy. She looked at the body a long time. Scrape. Had it moved? Scrape, more dirt. Had it moved? Had it? Or perhaps, perhaps she was wishing it had. Scrape. Scrape. Perhaps… perhaps… there! There! She was sure it had. The chest. Maybe, maybe just a little. But he worked on. His legs were covered. And now his chest. But it had moved! No, no… it hadn't… or had it? The blood on the arms that no longer bled turned the icy dirt into mud. His chest. No, no. Now for the face. Its beautiful features marred, shovelful after shovelful. Stop, stop! She wanted to yell. No, he's gone… gone… gone… forever. He threw down the shovel on the crude mound.

She sobbed clinging to his arm, staring blankly at the mound of death's final clothing. He drew himself up and began,

'We must all end our lives at a time. The coward ended his bravely, if you could call it bravery. Indeed, it is brave to die and be buried in the hands of enemies. But the hotheaded fool acted on impulse, looking for his own safety and happiness thus bringing his own death and misery'

He turned to her.

'Come now, bride. The rabid dog has been shot. He can harm us no more,' he said softly pushing away her tears. She sniffled in return. He walked over the snow and found his bloodied rapier. She cried out as he lifted it. The now cold blood had congealed and dried, forming odd, grotesque contortions on the sword. He wiped it off in the snow and slid it back into its rightful place.

He grabbed her arm.

'Milady, your carriage awaits,' he said.

He turned one last time and almost smiled at his work. His yellow eyes flashed out of the depths of the mask.


	2. Home

(A/N: this was supposed to be a one shot… but I decided to continue it… keep in mind… this story is definitely angsty and the Phantom is slightly OOC… Thnx Angel and Demon… this one's for you)

"Welcome, welcome to my lair," he said offering an eerie grin from his lipless mouth. He dumped her in a mass on the floor. She was still bleary eyed and tear stained. She had _his_ blood on her dress. He sneered at the sight of it.

"Take off those bloodied robes," he snarled.  
"But what will I wear?"

He laughed cruelly.

"Wear? Ha ha, my dear… who says you need to _wear_ anything?"

She stared at him in horror.

"Do you think I had not planned all of this?"

She stared at him again blankly as he walked over to his wardrobe and opened it. There in the bureau were various dresses and robes.

"You think that the Opera House is the only place I visit on a regular basis? Indeed not."

Suddenly, she found her tongue.

"You can't do this… stealing and murdering…"

He laughed again coldly, icily.

"Ha ha, I, mademoiselle, am a monster. Monsters may do what they please. Human laws were made for humans and I refuse to follow them… and love, murder and robbery are only petty crimes… I have done far worse… far worse"

She continued to gape in disbelief.

"Now love, are you going to remove those clothes or will I have to remove them for you?" he asked grinning slyly.

She stood up indignantly, almost in tears and walked to the wardrobe. When she got there, she realized that all of the clothes were either in red, black or white. She chose a white gown and ran behind a screen.

"What? White, dear? The alas… the color of purity and youth… I have lost all… and it would seem fitting for you only… no, my dear…" he said throwing a scarlet gown over the top of the screen, "No, love, this is more your color…"

What could he mean by this? Red? The color of the whores and prostitutes that littered the streets of Paris late at nights into the early morn selling their bodies to their drunken clients. Crimson? Why this? Why, Phantom?

"Are you quite finished? The demon grows impatient,"


	3. Sing, Angel!

"Come, my Carmen, surely you are done then?"

Carmen?

"My Carmen, who won the heart of her Don José, then crushed it under the boot of the pompous Escamillo," he spat as she emerged from behind the screen, "My whore-bride," he said laughing yet again from that mask.

"This torture. This cruelty. This surely was also a mask. It must be!" she thought to herself in tears at the ridicule.

"Please Monsieur, no more, I cannot bear it!" she cried.  
He turned on her like a snake.

"Please Monsieur, I cannot bear it!" he mimicked, "How would you like to have your heart torn out and thrown on the ground, chilled by snow and trampled until you fear breathing lest the pain overwhelms you? No, no, you shall never feel that way! You, the cat who has cornered this mouse, who plays with my heartstrings as does a puppeteer with his marionettes! No, you shall feel pain. You shall suffer as I do!"

He grabbed her wrist and dragged her to his work place.

"There!" he said, "sing Angel!" pointing to the music on the organ, "Sing, Angel! Sing for your demon!"

"Oh, why, Phantom, why?"

"Silence! Heed to my command, Angel!"

She gathered her courage and said defiantly, "No!"

He smiled through his mask and took a step toward her.

"No?"

She began to back away.

"No, Angel? Then we shall find, together, what is in my torture chamber."

She paled.  
"Torture… chamber?"

"Yes, my naïve little friend, torture… Would you care to discover what it feels like to have a bullwhip or cat o' nines rip across your soft, smooth flesh?"

She said nothing but shuddered in fear.

"No? That fails to appeal to you? Well then, love, sing wench!"

Her lip wavered, but she began nonetheless to sing. He walked behind her and began to stroke her hair.

"Higher, at that part, dear."

He came closer.

"That's it… more air…"

He breathed in her scent and began to grow dizzy by it. She shifted uncomfortably but did not dare to move or deny these advances.

"Louder, love,"

Silent tears began to roll down her cheeks.

"Repeat that part…"

She could feel his breath on her neck. She could smell him. The smell of death and decay.

"Again…"

She flinched as she felt what should have been his lips on her neck. What was this? Had he taken off his mask?

He seemed to know what she was thinking.

"Don't dare turn around, or Samson will finally have revenge on his Delilah! Oh, she'll beg for mercy when he's done!"

"Please, Phantom! No more! Please!"

"Ha, ha! No! Appease the lion and he might not attack… sing on, love!"

"No… no… please!"

"SING!"

(A/N: Ok… Sorry Leroux, I took a little creative license with the torture chamber idea… thnx again Angel and Demon… hmm, I may have to up the rating on this… it's getting a little too… scandalous… Anyways, I wrote another story that y'all might take an interest to. I haven't posted it yet… but it should be up within the next week…)


	4. Ha, Ha

(A/N: Welcome back to the tale that has taken its own course… I no longer have any control over the demon… many humble apologies)

His hand rose. Grime and dirt covered it. He pushed the mound aside. It was so heavy, like death itself was weighing down on him. Ha! It was death himself. The grinning skull under that mask had laughed at him. Laughed as he buried him in death's final shroud. Laughed as he ran him through with his sword. Laughed and laughed and laughed. Ha, Ha! It was funny was it not? It was. It was. He'd have laughed himself if the dirt had not been filling his mouth and lungs. He hoisted himself finally from the ground. Ha! He should not have left him there to die. He may have been merciful for the sake of his angel, but now he was reborn. Soulless, a child of the depths, bent on revenge.

The evening air touched his dead, pale skin. But he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything. What was the use of feeling? There was nothing left to feel. He had felt all and seen all. he had loved. He had lived. Ha, ha! But life was an elusive lover, and it hadn't taken a fancy to him. It had dealt him an unfair hand. It had dealt him a life he hadn't enjoyed living and a lover who hadn't enjoyed loving him. No she turned to someone else, more dead than he. Ha, ha! A corpse! A corpse! She wanted to love a corpse! Well, now he was a corpse himself. Ha, ha! Ha! Wasn't it funny? Wasn't it? He wanted to cry, but there were no tears.

He looked at his hands and his clothes that had almost been an intended feast for maggots and worms and laughed. He shook out his cravat. He dusted off his boots. He emptied the dirt from his sleeves. He looked down at his arm and chest. Ha, Ha! Now, this, was funny! Ha! Blood? Blood no more! It was hard and crusted. Muddy and cold. He scooped the clay from his wounds and threw it on the icy ground. He despised this unclean feeling more than any other. The undead didn't have to look unkempt. He shook the dust from his hair. He scooped up some snow and ran it over his face then wiped it off on his sleeve. Hmm, he'd have to make a visit to his tailor's.

He walked out of the grave yard laughing. Ha, ha! The undead did not stagger, they didn't limp! No, no, they walked normally. And why not? His hamstrings and ligaments hadn't been severed, had they? No! they hadn't. Ha! If he himself hadn't known it… no one would ever guess that he had died.


	5. So Much for the Tailor

A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews. I'm not fond of the poor fop myself)

He looked at himself in the mirror… He hadn't shaven that morning… Ah well, he'd never have to shave again after this he'd shave this evening, then never again! Never, never, never and forever! He threw off his clothes and slid into the bathtub. It was supposed to be warm, but he couldn't feel it. Everything felt the same, cold and hard.

The grime floated off. How disgusting! How common he must have looked asking for a room in this shabby inn! How humiliating! How… so very below him. How could he have loved an ordinary chorus girl? No, no, no… she was a _successful _chorus girl… she would not have been worth his while otherwise. He _was _going to try for Carlotta, but oh that wretched voice! Very much like that toad…

He should have loved her, ah, she'd have clung to his money like fleas hang to dogs. Indeed, it wouldn't be true love, but then what love is true? In storybooks? Bah! They were not reality! Fairytales! No use to him. Oh, but she'd have been faithful, and if not, well then, he had the money! He could be a prima donna, too! Why, no money for you! And if money did not work, then a bruise could be easily hidden with a little stage make-up. Angel had been different, no… the little chorus girl. She cared not for bruises or money. That ghost of a father she claimed she saw had her in a tighter grip than any vice he could employ. Why else would she travel to those dungeons late at nights after dancing her feet 'til the blisters bled and calloused? Why else would she show up at practices with a hoarse and tired? Tired! Always tired! And Mme. Giry, that horrid woman with the wrinkled lips and wretched teeth always allowed it.

"Legs up! Legs up! Watch that posture girls! Oh, my dear… you look faint, do have a rest! Not you child! Come on girls! We have a performance tonight! No time for dawdling!"

She didn't fool him… not a bit! He thought, perhaps, she was to rest because the girl was his favorite and thus she was to be pampered. But no, no, Giry was not one to be awed or persuaded by money or status. Why, he had even seen her spit in the faces of her managers! They could never fire her, she'd been there far too long, and there were not many with her talents.

He uncorked the bath and watched the water run out. He rose out of the tub and went back to the mirror. There was a shaving kit there, perhaps by chance or left by some careless traveler, for at the moment, he had nothing to his name for he was out of walking distance from his château but that would change soon enough.

He lathered his face with the brush. He put the cold steel to his throat and began to scrape. He was not used to shaving himself, after all, what was a valet for? And so, he cut himself and then stared in amusement and shock as he realized, he wasn't bleeding! Not at all! the flesh underneath was pink and hard. Well, this would not do! He could not go cutting himself if he couldn't heal himself. What was worse, he couldn't feel it! He didn't realize it was cut until he saw the pink tissue fall off of his flesh like the bark off a tree. Well, make-up would have to do for now. He would have to make that visit to the tailor's today and he wanted to look natural.

"Why hello Monsieur, how can I help you?"  
"I'd like a coat please… and a vest and a shirt… in fact I'd like a whole suit… I want to look my best."

"A party, Monsieur?"

"A sort of party, yes…"

As he was about to take measurements, the tailor gasped.

"What?"

"Monsieur… your chest! And your arm!"

Demmed it! He had forgotten to bandage them because they weren't bleeding.

"Ha, ha! 'tis nothing! Flesh wounds!" He tried to sound light and convincing, but it came out as a growl.

"What were you doing to merit such deep wounds? They are not indeed! Please monsieur… you must see a doctor…"

"No!... Get on with the measurements!" His tone was as harsh and cold as the wind howling like some angered wolf outside.

"You'll get blood all over my… monsieur… you aren't… bleeding… but surely these are fresh wounds?"

"Monsieur… Get on with the measurements!"

"I will not! I'm going to…" He turned.

But he couldn't finish as he found the tip of sword glinting gleefully at the taste of new blood protruding out of his chest.

He watched as the tailor dropped to his knees then on his face, the look of shock still hot in his eyes.

"So much for the tailor," he thought to himself as he walked out the door hailing for a taxi.

(A/N: Thank you all ever so much for the reviews… especially to you my house elf, Angel or Demon, you rock… and Berry Scary, I love your name… 'k everyone… I love you all!)


	6. Practice, Practice, Practice

(A/N: It's out of control! I like it… who knew it? I must have a very dark imagination… honest, I don't watch 'scary movies' EVER and the 'scariest' books I've read are Dracula and (duh!) Phantom of the Opera… Leroux naturally… anyway… Onward!)

Her lips were as dry as her throat. She could not sing anymore. Her voice seemed to crackle like the fire on the hearth.

"Why have you stopped? You have two more verses to go!" he mused. Had she? She looked down at the sheet of music. It was blurry. The notes had all run together on the page. It was so late… or early? She couldn't tell here. She couldn't take it any more.  
"Please," she rasped finally, "I can't sing any more… my voice is worn out"

He cocked his head to the side, "In pain? Good! Pain is good, it tells you you're alive! Invigorating, no?"

She hated this torture. She shook her head, "No Phantom, please, I can't…" she gasped.

"You can't take it anymore?" he said mockingly, "You can't take it anymore! We'll see about that… my, my do look at the time… why 'tis but 12:00…"

"In the morning?"

"No love, 'tis noon! None other than the 24 hour mark of the burial of your silly aristo,"

She began to cry again.

"Oh, stop your blubbering. I'm sick of you. Go to your room. Oh wait, ha, ha…you don't have your own room. Or at least I'm not prepared to give you your own room… so you will sleep in here… oh don't worry you'll sleep on the floor. Here!" he said throwing her a thin blanket. She looked at it and looked at the wet stone ground.

"What is your intent? To kill me?"

"In the end, perhaps, but first, I will kill your soul. The decay will work it's way inside out as it has myself"

She looked at him and saw him as a human for the first time. But the moment passed and his eyes became fiery. "Lie down, insolent child!"

Child?

"Down! Now! I don't want to see your face again today… oh fine… here's a pillow and another blanket" but that one wasn't very thick either. He went to his coffin and laid down in it and shut his eyes, but was up a second later at his organ. She shivered on the ground. If only… but she was so tired she faced to coldness and fell asleep. She woke up perhaps three hours later to a rough nudge.

"Up, up, up! It's three already. Time for your evening lesson!"

"But, I thought you didn't want to see my face again today?"

"I don't _want_ to see your face again. But it is time for your evening lesson and that will not be postponed."

"But why?" she asked still hoarse from her earlier "Lesson"

"Because… you are going to sing tonight. Tonight is the second showing of "Il Muto" and you mustn't miss that, must you?"

"But…"

"Cease this! I am tired of your constant complaining. We must work that raspiness out of your voice if you are to sound at all decent tonight."

;-


	7. Sceam for me, Angel!

(A/N: ok… Sadistical Phantom + Bad Performance Beat-up Christine. Sorry all y'alls… I forgot to press save and my original copy of this got deleted so… I'm doing this from memory, so bear with me… sorry, but Christine had it coming to her… if you don't like… I'm sorry… just remember that this is an ANGST/HORROR, don't get mad at me)

The performance was a disaster. She knew she hadn't done that well. She knew he'd be furious. Perhaps she could avoid him. If only she went to the dancer's dormitory instead of her room. No, that would not do, he would seek her out, even there. She turned towards her room and gasped as her world went black.

She awoke to her own reflection in a mirror. Where was she? All she knew was that she was back in her scarlet dress and had no idea how she got there. She gasped as she felt a cold gloved hand at the base of her neck.

"Awake? Good! I was afraid you might miss it"

She cried out as she felt her arms being lifted like a puppet's. She felt cold steel against her wrists. She heard the clanking of chains and the scraping of metal until she was in a standing position. She whimpered as he walked out in front of her, knowing what was to happen.

"Welcome to my torture chamber"

He lifted her chin with the handle of a whip.

"What? Thought you could sing horribly and get away with it? Thought you could disgrace the Phantom? Did you?"

He looked at her reflection in the mirror in front of her. Suddenly, he grasped her cheeks and squeezed her mouth open and forced in a dirty rag of a handkerchief.

"You had better had keep this in, I'll not do it for you."

He strode behind her. She gasped as he ripped open her dress, buttons clacking as they popped to the ground. Her eyes widened as a switchblade flashed in the mirrors.

He laughed at that.

"Oh, don't worry pet, the fun hasn't begun yet"

Nonetheless, she took a sharp breath as he slid the knife up her back, slicing the strings of her corset. He placed a violent kiss on the nape of her neck then wrenched back the whale-boned contraption so her back was fully exposed.

"Now, let the blood begin to race… but which toy to use?" he mused to himself. She watched in horror at the mirrors as he walked over to a side wall which was covered in knives of various kinds and several whips, and, above them all, a curiously tied rope…

He carefully hung up the crop he'd been carrying. He gazed at the wall a minute carefully pondering his weapons chose a cat o' nines and strode back to her. She closed her eyes trembling in anticipation of the pain. He shook the whip and straightened the cords and looked up into the mirror.

"Ah, ah, ah! We mustn't close our eyes! It will only make the beating last longer!"

She tore her eyes open as she felt her skin ripped apart. The snake struck again at its writhing victim. She looked in the mirror and saw her back reflected from behind her. It was crimson and glistening in the torchlight. Her own flesh hung off it like the torn sails of the Flying Dutchman. Blood splattered on the mirror behind her as he drew the whip back once again. As it tore across her back, she clenched her eyes shut to cope with the pain.

"Open them!" he shouted, "Open them!" He threw the whip forward harder.

She wrenched them open to be rewarded with another lash. She screamed. No! Had she lost it? She had! What would happen?

He grinned evilly.

"I told you that you had better keep that in…" He lashed out again…

She cried out.

He laughed sadistically.

"Scream for me, my Angel of Music!"

Her screams echoed into the night…

(A/N: Gory? I thought so… I love you all… I'm sorry that this might not be as good as the original, but I thought it was pretty good… Cheerios! I love you all!)


	8. The Ballet Mistress

(A/N: I know… last chapter was violent… it gets not so violent in this chapter… then heartless again… bad English I know… I'm upping the rating by the way…)

"How could you do this!" a shrill voice was shouting.

"She defied me! She sang badly on purpose to disgrace me! Then, she tried to run!" an angry voice responded.

The room was blurry and it sounded as if she were hearing voices from behind a door or under water.

"She did not! Her performance was not bad at all!"

"She missed her cues and was flat or sharp too many times to count!"

"She's only a girl! Nearly fifteen years younger than Carlotta!"

"Ha! That's no excuse! I was in the highest courts of Persia at her age! I was working on my first opera at her age! Don't tell me she is too young!"

"She's too young!"

"Why you insolent, ungrateful… I could…"

"Ungrateful?... Don't you dare strike me!... You owe me your life! Go on then strike at me! Go on! Kill me if you like! Then tell me who's ungrateful!"

The other let out a tortured moan.

She heard a sigh.

"Come, come, come… She lives… she didn't bleed to death"

"I wish she had…"

"Hush, look… she's awake…"

She couldn't move; everything hurt too much. He rose up and left the room. The other figure walked to her.

"Mme. Giry? I… oh Lord!"

"Shh shh shh, calm down it's going to be alright"

She looked down and realized why he had left the room. She was stripped to her waist of all clothing. She looked back up at Giry questioningly.

"Shh, don't worry love, I did it… he brute didn't even know what do with you after he was done with you," said the woman stroking the girl's hair, "he left you hanging there… you'd probably had been dead in a few hours if the night watchman hadn't heard your screaming. He thought it was one of my girls. Well," she said looking down, "it was… and I knew exactly which one, only, I was hoping it wasn't," There were tears in the woman's eyes.

(A/N: sorry to ruin the mood… but this reminds me of a scene in "Lion in Winter" with Katharine Hepburn and Peter O'Toole… not great movie, but great dialogue… ok back to story)

"So I came down to see what had happened and he was down here but I didn't see you… then I saw blood on his clothes and hands and asked for you. I'm sorry," she said nursing the back, "He should not get so mad… I suppose it's my fault… I'm like his older sister… I should have taught him better." She shook her head, "I'm sorry… you'll be safe for a while yet…"

"You're not going to leave me here!" whispered the girl.

"I'm sorry, I must! You are not well enough to make the journey to above ground and he wouldn't let you go anyway,"

"He would if _you_ asked," she whispered.

She shook her head.

"No, I don't have that power over him. I told you I'm only an older sister to him, not his mother. I can only send him on guilty trips into his own limited conscience when he forgets himself and blackmail him into remembering it. Besides, he only lets me into the caverns when he has a reason to, like tonight. Don't worry, I'll be back to nurse you back to health and bring you food… he'd not have the nerve to do it himself… he's such a child in many ways," she said looking far off into the archives of her mind. "It'll all be alright, I must away. The girls have a practice soon. Don't move too much or the wounds won't heal properly, good night love, sleep and don't anger him again"

"Wait!" she whispered, but it was too late, the ballet teacher had already left and shut the door behind her, "Wait… wait…" she sobbed. But it hurt too much; everything hurt. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to move. It hurt to cry. Her wounds were covered in some sort of salve, hopefully they would heal faster. The room was dark now that the door was shut… it was completely black… She began to fade again… everything so dark, but two flashing yellow dots that bobbed up and down, blinking in the black.

(A/N: see? Not all of my characters are completely heartless… I could have made Giry heartless, but I didn't feel like making everyone heartless…Oh for explanation… I didn't want to make the Phantom a complete perv, so I had him leave the room… yes… Christine was half undressed, but Giry did that… not the Phantom… And in the last chapter, she had her undergarments (i.e. corset etc.) when he changed her into the scarlet dress so… I wanted to make it clear that he isn't in this for the sex… he hates her. He feels betrayed and rejected so yeah, he's not really in love with her anymore… both Raoul and The Phantom are out for revenge (yes, I know the Phantom has a name, I just don't want to use it… 'The Phantom' sounds so much cooler anyways))


	9. The Trouble with Being Dead

(A/N: Welcome to the world where my insanity becomes reality. Grody chapter… creepy sickness coming up… More of deader than dead Raoul finding out the disadvantages of being dead)

Raoul stepped out of the taxi in front of his château and paid the driver. He walked up the front steps stiffly and slowly. He'd been getting so stiff. He decided that it was because blood was no longer surging through his veins. It had turned to stone like his heart. A bath. A bath is what he needed. It would soften his muscles and perhaps warm his blood. But never his heart. His heart would never again soften for the world of man and love. There was no room for love when revenge was on the venue. His knees locked. He cursed his knees and he cursed the architect who had built his building with so many steps. (A/N: wouldn't it have been ironic if the Phantom was the culprit architect?)

His skin was getting brittle and hard. It cracked at the joints. If only he had lotion! He wished to be inside his ancestral home now more than ever. This house that had been his prison for so many years was now his refuge. The parents who had coddled him sick and the brother who he had looked up to but had pushed him too soon into the cruel arms of society were gone, all gone. The demon had taken him, his own brother, too. He cursed the demon.

He opened the door and was greeted by his servants whose faces he only vaguely remembered although he had known them all his life. Death had eaten away at his memory as it was eating away at his body. These were all shadows of his past now, merely shadows that seemed to haunt him.

He staggered up yet another flight of stairs and made his way into his lavatory. He came upon the mirror and stopped. He looked into his vacant eyes. He poked his yellowed, pale skin that was so much like parchment. He scowled at himself. He hated everything.

All love was gone. It had been sucked dry of him by that… that corpse, that monstrous vampire of life. Revenge began to eat away at him like the maggots that had found their way into his dead flesh. He pulled them out one by one as they clung to his body, feeding off of the result of hate. They wriggled on the counter until he squished them each in their turn, taking joy in seeing them writhe to their ends.

He got into the bathtub after checking himself on more time for any other vermin that may have plagued his body. He began soaping himself methodically, and gently, making sure that his skin that had lost its elasticity did not fall off of him. He slipped under water and stayed there for a long while, his body replenishing itself in much needed fluids. He stepped out of the tub feeling much more like himself again.

He pulled out of the medicine cabinet lotion and searched in his mother's belongings for make-up. He applied both and looked in the mirror. Yes, yes, he was certainly looking like himself again. His gaunt cheeks looked rejuvenated with the life bringing water, soothing lotion and deceitful make-up. He put on his best suit and pant outfit. He would look his best in his revenge.

'Now,' he thought to himself, looking one last time in the mirror, 'for the hair.'

He began to run a comb through his long blondish hair until he came to a snarl. He pulled on the snag until it came out… with a large chunk of scalp clinging to it. He gingerly touched the place where it had come and there, on the side of his head, a huge chunk of hair was missing. Being dead would be harder than he thought.

(A/N: for all of my very devoted fans and Daft Penguins, I request that you read "It's a MMAD MMAD MMAD MMAD World," Also written by yours truly… yes I know it's a cheap trick advertising for your own Fan Fics, but I'm debating as to whether I should continue that one or not... It, I must warn you, is not creepy, but rather hilarious… if you like irony, you'll like that… I will soon (soon being relative) be posting another Fan Fic, one I have been working on for nearly four months and it still isn't even close to being finished… but that one has it all… horror, romance, jealousy, comedy, tragedy… the works… it'll be fun… Bless you all!)


	10. The Hunt for Red Death Begins

(A/N: Giry joins in the hunt. Any odds on whose side she's on?…)

Raoul arrived at the opera house at twilight, his hair back into a ponytail. With the bath and make-up, one could hardly tell that he wasn't human. He really wasn't himself anymore.

The Managers greeted him at the door.

"Ah! Our beloved patron! La Carlotta has been asking for you all morning!"

"You will have to excuse me, I'm not myself today."

"Oh?" they said, concerned, "Here then, have a sit down."

"Would you like a brandy?"

He waved them aside.

"No, no… where's that Giry woman?"

"Who?"

"Madame Giry!" he growled.

"Yes, but why do you want to see her?"

"Fetch her!" he ordered.

"Yes, Monsieur," they bowed quietly and one called in a boy passing by the office and whispered "Find Giry," giving him a coin.

The boy nodded and ran off.

The woman walked into the room unsure of her reason for being there, but ready to defend herself.

"Gentlemen, will you leave us two alone?" he said, glaring at her icily.

They shrank back, nodding out the door.

"Where is he Madame?"

She drew herself up to her full height, held her chin up stubbornly and assumed a stern fixed stare at the wall in front of her. She looked like a proud prisoner being questioned. And he circled her like a hungry wolf.

"I am quite sure I don't know what you are talking about."

"Don't fool with me, where did he take her?"

"I don…"

The beast suddenly sprang. He pinned her against the wall, his hand clenched about her neck.

"Where is he?" he growled, tightening his grip. Her hands flew to his wrists. She sank her fingers into his skin, trying to pry him off, but to no avail. She watched in horror as her fingernails sank into his flesh, but instead of hot blood dirtying her pretty nails, cold water flowed freely. His grip was like steel. She began to feel dizzy. The pressure was unbearable, and all the time growing.

"Please, Monsieur, I will take you to him," she gasped with her fading breath.

"Good then, you lead the way. But don't move too fast, or my rapier will earn another unfortunate victim," he whispered into her ear.

He set her loose and turned her towards the door gruffly. He drew his sword and stood behind her.

"Act normally, Madame,"

She had not intended to act otherwise.


	11. Into Dungeons Dark as Hell!

(A/N: I must really be losing my touch…?)

There were many caverns and caves leading to the undergrounds and she knew only the ones he told her about. Doubtless there were many more. Now, the question was, which one would she be showing him down? To betray the Phantom would be unthinkable and it could prove perilous to both her and her beloved daughter, not to mention the prisoner of below. But here, she had a rapier digging into her back; she could not defy this monster either.

She walked quickly, almost too quickly at points nodding to the stage-hands as they passed. She came to a door and opened it and led him down a dark corridor she lit a lamp at the end of the corridor and pushed in a brick below it.

"Quiet, Monsieur… the walls have ears,"

He looked around at the walls. They seemed to get narrower as they went. Perhaps this was an optical illusion that was brought on by some inane fear? But what did he have to fear? He feared nothing! There was nothing to fear heaven had rejected him and he'd been spewed out of hell for the soul purpose of revenge. He grinned, 'soul' purpose.

"I can take you no further Monsieur," she said pointing down a blackened staircase, "Here, take the torch and may God have mercy on you both. Keep your hand at the level of your eye!"

And with that, she disappeared into the black. Demmed! Where did she go? He heard water dripping from somewhere. He felt the walls. They were wet. Where was this water from? He held up the torch but it was almost no use. The dark was as black and suffocating as pitch. He felt his skin crawl. Perhaps it was crawling or something was crawling beneath it.

He saw the steps below him and not much else. But what did it matter? What need did he have of light? He began to run down the stairs almost laughing.


	12. A Lesson in Physics:Matter and Gravity

(A/N: A few memorable moments from the movie…)

He was surprised when he dropped into the icy water.

"Well, this certainly wasn't expected," he thought. He was even more surprised when the heavy iron bars began to lower, "How did those get there? They must have been behind the trapdoor," he pondered.

(A/N: Ok, this is something to really think about: In the 2004 Movie version, where _does _the grate come from when it drops down on Raoul? He drops through the trapdoor from above while running down the stairs then the grate drops from above where he just fell through. Back to story)

He really was in no hurry to get himself out of it. It was true that his best outfit was now soaked but, no matter, even the finest wool would dry in time. The only problem was his wool jacket _was _weighing him down. He peeled it off as the grate continued to lower. He was glad that he had decided on leather gloves instead of the white ones, which may have gotten soiled in this predicament. The grate pushed him under water, but it didn't truly matter. His lungs filled with water, but that was no matter at all, he had had heavier matter fill his lungs.

(A/N: Another thing to think about: Where did the door that Raoul exits out of come from? He gets out of the water through a door that miraculously appears after the grate is lifted. Couldn't he have just gotten out of the water earlier and gone through that same door before the grate pushed him under water?)

There was no mechanism to raise the grate, the Phantom wasn't that stupid, to allow his victims a way to escape. (A/N: Sorry folks, but it's true. The real Phantom would have left Raoul no stupid mechanism for raising the grate, and in this one, there's no handy door either… oops! Sorry for spoiling the effect, many apologies) He would be forced to use a little ingenuity. By applying pressure on one side, perhaps, he could make a hole for his escape, after all, there was nothing forcing the grate down but gravity. He felt the bottom of the pit. Ah ha! He was not the only victim of the Phantom's clever traps. He felt and heard, through the water, bones snap beneath him. He pushed against the grate and sure enough, he felt the chains go lax and saw a hole for which to swim out of. He reached the surface. Now how was he going to get out?

He felt the perimeter of his little aqueous cell. It was all solid. No doors for which to escape out of. He began feeling the walls for mechanisms, but none were to be found. He leaned against a chain. All was not lost yet. Not until the water turned his dead flesh to a stewy mush would all be lost.

A chain! Yes! He could climb a chain! He gripped onto a chain and felt the flesh tear at his wrist as the muscle separated itself from his bones. But somehow, his grip stayed steady, as if nothing had happened. He felt a new feeling wash over him, from a feeling of dread, to complete power. Wait, wait! His coat! He would not leave without it! He swam down to where lay his coat. He pulled it up through a hole. He heard it tear and cursed loudly underwater so it only came out as a gurgle. He swam back to a chain and putting on the heavy coat, began to climb.

Arm over arm, he pulled himself from the green depths.

"This trapdoor must be easy to trigger if it's so easy to fall through it," he thought out loud.

Still holding the chain with his legs, he felt for the trapdoor and found the edge. His hands, and skin for that matter, were slippery and it was hard to grasp. He somehow got a part of it and pulled it down. He hoisted himself from the pit.

He looked down at himself and cursed. A good outfit, soaked! That demmed Giry, she would get it if he ever saw her again.

Giry watched from above as he hoisted himself out and did his best to dry himself. What was this? Alive! How had it happened? She had come down to see if the invention had worked. Why hadn't it killed the aristo? Something was wrong. Something was seriously wrong.


	13. Triskaidekaphobia

(A/N: I may have lied somewhere a ways back)

She did not know how long she had lain there with her back and body exposed. She did not know how long she had been gone to the world and she did not know how long she had been asleep. She turned her head, even that movement sent daggers down her spine and she cringed and became rigid again. She was tired. If only to escape this pit of death, it would be worth the agony. She slowly got up, even though it felt like someone was tearing the scabs off of her raw back. She crawled, inching slowly towards the only light she could see, a candle somewhere far away.

She painfully dragged her broken body across the cold hard ground of wherever this was. She slowly, slowly reached it. She must seem pathetic she thought to herself, but she really did not care. She was desperate. She reached up to the flame and thrust her hand toward it, perhaps a little too hard, for hot wax burned her thumb and fingers as the candle clattered to the floor, her light and hope extinguished. She drew herself up into a ball and sobbed into her crossed arms.

Steely light flooded the room as did the cold, metallic laugh that echoed into the darkness.

She gasped and tried to crawl away from the shadow that haunted her dreams. She wished it was a shadow, but she knew all too well how solid and heavy that shadow was. I weighed down on her like burden of Atlas.

The shadow lowered itself to her ear.

"So eager for light? So eager to escape?"

She looked up at him with a doleful pair of eyes.

A gloved hand pressed gently against her back tore at her like acid. She squirmed like the worm caught at the edge of the hook.

"Did that hurt?"

The sarcasm cut her like the pain did.

"Light hurts. It's cold, unfeeling, it is ruthless, exposes truth, uncovers lies. There is no light here, not true light anyway."

He looked down his nose at the pitiful mass at his feet. He was tempted to kick it. It disgusted him that he should be keeping such a thing. He created it. He must have created it to hate him. Perhaps it was his fault that the slut had turned from him.

She was crawling again, crawling towards the light again. He strode towards the creeping figure and crushed what he supposed was a hand and smiled, satisfied at the strangled scream that emerged from the mass of scared flesh and clothes. It stopped moving to nurse the hand.

She was infuriated. He mocked her. He laughed. It enjoyed the pain. It enjoyed her screams. It enjoyed the terror, the power it held over her. Not anymore. It would not take advantage of her again. She rose, exposed but not caring. Her scarlet dress hung, shredded, at her waist. Her eyes blackened.

She took a determined step. It lit a cigar and stood there, taking it in, not seeming to notice that the object on the floor was now standing. Her back was searing in pain, but she took another step. Her hands rose mechanically, simultaneously. They aimed toward his collared neck. Closer and closer she came as he stood blindly, calmly smoking.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he retorted and spun towards her abruptly. Her hands snapped to her sides and gaped at him, shocked and now scared.

"So, thought you could beat the Phantom at his own tricks did you?" He took a step towards her and she stepped away, "Tsk tsk tsk, shouldn't have done that my dear, should not have done that." He took another step and her hands began to rise again, but his time defensively. "Don't you know it's impolite to strike at a gentleman when his back is turned?" She felt the wall behind her and realized she could not back up anymore, but still he got closer.

"You would never do it anyway would you? Scared. Weak. And ever so naïve. You could never hurt me,"

She could smell his breath hot against her face.

"See? So easily influenced," he whispered close to her ear. She felt his hand against the bare skin of her side moving upwards. She sucked in a breath as he went past her lips and kissed her cheek and her ear. He roughly shoved her to the wall. She screamed in agony, but he just turned around and began to stride away. "Why, you even imagined that I was your father."

At this, she truly burned with anger. How dare he insult her like this? how dare he insult her father. She ran at him her hands flying on their own to meet his neck. But he seemed to have expected this and grasped her wrist, wrenching it behind her back.

"Mademoiselle, you have tried my patience long enough," his hand clenched about her throat, squeezing harder and harder in its iron vice. She tried to wriggle free, but with her arm securely against her back, it just twisted her arm worse, it was hard to tell which he would break first: her arm or her neck. Her vision blurred, darkened and she fell unconscious to the floor.

He stepped over the limp figure and went calmly to the organ where he set to his opera.

(A/N: Well, how many ardent readers do I have?)


	14. Something's Wrong!

(A/N: I have a bit of writer's block…)

"Phantom! Mon Dieu! Phantom!"

"What is it? Giry? Is that you? What are you doing down here?"

"Please monsieur! He's coming!"

"Who?"

"Raoul!"

"C'est impossible! I killed and buried him last week!"

"But monsieur I saw him! He made me show him down!"

He scowled at her, "What do you mean?"

"Please… he made me!"

"What do you mean?" he roared.

She tore her collar away from her neck.

"See the bruises! I didn't have any choice! He tried to strangle me!"

He turned a cold shoulder towards her.

"You have betrayed me…"

"No! Please! I didn't! I showed him the way down that… M. Giry took so many years ago," she shuddered at the memory.

"Then the man is surely dead or soon too be, anyways," he said his hands clasped behind his back, staring questioningly out of the mask.

She was silent.

"No?"

She hung her head.

"Monsieur… something is terribly wrong,"

If he had been able, he would have paled even lighter than his parchment white skin. He grasped her shoulders and shook them.

"What's wrong? He didn't fall in? He's coming? What is wrong?"

She wrenched herself from his grasp.

"He did fall in. He is coming here."

"What do you mean? I left no escape! The water is too deep and the grate is too heavy! What do you mean!"

He raised an arm to strike her.

She cowered away from the gloved hand.

"Please no!" she cried, "Something is wrong! He was down there for half an hour! And then I was coming down to see if he was gone for sure, but as I was turning down that spiral staircase, I saw him! He was wet and climbing out of the trapdoor!" She swallowed and continued, "And there's something else…"

"What?" He pleaded.

"When I struggled… yes, I struggled when he tried to choke me… I wouldn't give in _that _easily… I… I dug my fingernails into his flesh… and… and… my fingernails tore straight through his skin like… like paper… and it wasn't blood that poured from the wounds… but a clear liquid… like water. I tell you! Something's wrong!"

"Yes… I would say something is most certainly wrong," said a cool voice behind them.

(A/N: Alright… I know that it is both cheesy to ask for reviews… but I really have writer's block… so maybe if I get some reviews I'll feel encouraged enough to write a better chapter… I actually think I'll add a chapter in between this one and the last one… more Christine/ Phantom interaction)


	15. Fighting Death

(A/N: Isrufel Valis pointed something out that I had hoped people would get, but perhaps was too subtle. Triskaidekaphobia is the fear of the number 13, as in English speaking countries, specifically the US, thirteen is an unlucky number. That chapter was originally called "The Thirteenth day because it was the thirteenth day after the Phantom killed Raoul. Yes, I know the Phantom said it was only a week, but it's hard to tell underground, even with clocks.)

The Phantom looked up almost surprised.

The Phantom smiled at the dead man at the gate.

It was a terror to see the figure at the gate. He was more hideous than the Phantom. His face was hardly recognizable. His eyes were sunken in and hollow. His skin was a pasty white and falling off of his face in dry curls. His hair was patchy and dirty.

Really, he hated himself, he truly just wanted to die altogether, but something was still driving him. Something still moving him. He had to fight on… for what? But he knew if he didn't accomplish what he had come for, if he failed… the spell would be lost and time would win. Hell would graciously accept his soul again. If he went on though… what was he truly accomplishing? Hell would accept even its most devoted follower… and what honor was there in that? In eternal darkness, who can tell one soul from another?

"It appears we have a guest,"

But it was too late for all that now… something snapped inside of him and he would finish what he came for. His eyes narrowed…

"Raoul!" the prisoner whispered desperately. He did not seem to notice her. His now cloudy eyes stared coldly at the Phantom.

Giry shuddered at the solid ghost and reached instinctively for her neck.

"Welcome to my humble abode," he said with a smile under his mask, his arms smugly crossed across his chest.

"Let me in Phantom!" he drew his sword. His voice was steely and metallic… No life, only the beyond in its copper tones.

He tilted his head to the side and smiled from his death mask, "Why?"

"Let me in Phantom! Or," his face drew itself into a half grin over his rotten gums, "or perhaps a better name, if you are too afraid to fight death himself, would be… coward?"

The Phantom sneered.

"I am not a coward, and I am never afraid to fight death… I defeated him on _more_ than one occasion… and quite willing to do it again. But who are you to boast the name of death? That, Monsieur, as many people know, is my title,"

That struck the dead as funny. His laugh echoed deep into the catacombs like bones cackling against each other in sinister merriment.

"You? Death? You have made me laugh, Monsieur. Now will you fight me or not?"

He pretended to be disinterested, picking a piece of lint off of his shirt, "Really… I beat you once. Are you so eager to be defeated again?"

"You will not, sir, mock me so. I shan't be defeated that easily,"

"Shall you not?" he asked with a yawn, "I hadn't thought you'd be so insistent to die yet again, but…" he said reaching for the lever, "Because you insist so _ardently_," He sighed dramatically, "I shall have to comply,"

"Very wise, monsieur,"

"Thank you, I thought as much," he said wading out to meet the challenger. He dipped for a moment as Raoul watched the grate fall behind him, "The fool," he thought to himself.

"Raise your hand to the level of your eye," a voice whispered in Raoul's ear. A rope tore at his neck, "Order your fine horses now," the voice continued as he was twisted around.

He laughed, "Do what you want only…" the rope squeezed tighter.

"Only what, Monsieur? Free her?" the Phantom growled.

"Certainment pas!" answered Raoul, the rope cutting into his throat like the blade of a blunted knife, "Why free her? I was only going to say that… you are in a fight with death… I must say… you can't kill death,"

The Phantom looked at him in fear. What was this? Why wasn't he choking? He tugged harder.

The prisoner's head cocked itself at a strange and disturbing angle, "Trying to choke me, eh? It won't work you know…" he said twisting his eyes toward the Phantom.

He tugged harder.

Then something odd happened… Raoul stretched a hand up and grabbed the rope and began to fight against the Phantom's hopeless pulling. The Phantom's eyes widened in complete horror. The rope straining against the Phantom's leather glove, muscles contorting and twisting in a struggle to keep his catch. But the fish out of water seemed not to drown in the air as it should.

The tug-o-war seemed endless, Raoul's flesh cutting away from him with the friction like the peel of an orange, his exposed dead muscle and bone, red and white, gleaming in the candlelight. The Phantom's teeth clenched, every muscle rippling and straining, sweat flowing in rivulets, pressure slowly building.

The rope began to snap at the strain, crackling dangerously. Raoul let go of the rope and his body rose with the Phantom's pullings. He reached across and drew his sword and cut himself down. He collapsed in a floating pile on the water.

An eerie silence fell over the cave. Everyone looked expectantly at the pile waiting. The women huddled, and shaking in fear and the Phantom puzzled at why his trick that had worked so many times failed.

But the pile didn't move. It floated peacefully in the water gently waiting to be disturbed.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years must have gone by with no movement but the shuddering sobs of the poor abused prisoner of the black.

The Phantom took a cautious step toward it.

"Phantom, don't!"

But the pull was too strong.

"No, Phantom!"

And another, he mechanically stepped towards the dead beast of the depths that he knew was not dead but waiting to be woken.

"Please, don't!" came the cry, but it was too late. He moved still closer. Closer.

"Please!" was the choking sob.

He stood over the mess of nothing. The coat of a fop. An Aristo! His white shirt meant nothing now. The cuffs, the sleeves, the cravat… nothing! No longer enchanted by the blue blood that had so recently filled them, meant nothing! He laughed at the monster in the closet that had turned out to be a limp pile of clothes.

He watched as his drawn sword reached out and jabbed the thing.

It stayed stationary.

He turned and nervously grinned at the women who were now entwined in a fearful embrace, each keeping the other from fainting.

He stabbed it again this time with more confidence.

It stayed as it was.

He laughed this time. Nothing to fear! Nothing! He had defeated death again. It was too dumb, too deaf, too blind to catch him. No, no, no, it couldn't tell one fool from another. He would always win in the end.

He laughed. It was the childish, gleeful, nervous laugh of a boy who had won a game by cheating.

(A/N: Oooo, Cliffy! You're all just gonna have to wait 'til Jerry, my muse, feels inspired again, which probably won't be long since I know exactly what's going to happen next)


	16. Not in Your Right Mind!

(Darn that Jerry! so uh… I guess that either no one read, or no one liked my last chapter… so… we'll try this again DO NOT FAIL ME!)

His laugh high-pitched and haunting as it echoed through the caverns and resounded in a thousand voices returning his giddy, sinister laugh.

The women stood together in a shuddering huddle as they watched the Phantom drag himself slowly toward them.

"Don't you understand? I've won!" he said holding out his arms, a sword still grasped in one outstretched arm, with a wild maddening smile on his face.

"Phantom, please!" spoke one of them, "You are not in your right mind?"

"Right mind!" he screamed wildly, "Right mind? Have I ever, my dear madam, been in my right mind? I've defeated," he said turning back on the floating mass, "death over… and over… and over again," he said stabbing at the defenseless pile.

He turned back towards them, his yellow, wolf-like eyes glinting a hint of red.

"I'm afraid my dear old fellow, that you haven't finished with death yet. He's come for his final dues and you will pay them!" said a casual voice behind him.

His mouth opened in disbelief. He wheeled around and staggered backwards at the sight. His enemy was standing there where the pile of clothing had floated. The face was more disfigured than it ever had been. Deep gashes riddled the mess and bone poked through the flesh near his cheek bones where the Phantom had driven his sword into the pile that he thought was his defeated enemy.

"I do suppose," the corpse said casually, "That I do, now, look a sight worse than you."

He laughed at his own little joke.

"A sight worse… where do I come up with these? Now," he said bringing his sword up to the Phantom's neck, "I could, right now, kill you… look at you! Fluttering like a leaf! It's almost disgusting!" he spat, "Ah, ha, ha!" in a mock laugh, "Who now is as cool as a cucumber… cold as death? 'Tis not death's toy, but death himself," Raoul laughed.

"Raoul, no! Not like this!"

He turned his head at the interruption. The Phantom seized the opportunity and grabbed the noose that was still wrapped around the animated corpse's neck and tugged at it, catching Raoul unaware and forcing him back underwater. The Phantom pulled up again at the rope again. A bit too harshly this time for something cracked. It hit the water with a quiet 'cl-unk'.

He wasn't quite sure what happened except that he was holding an empty noose. But the body?

"Where is it?" he screamed, stabbing madly at the water.

He hit something… He hit it again… then something grasped his leg.

It seemed to crawl up his leg and for a first time in his life, he was paralyzed in fear.

Something white, colorless rose from the depths. Flashes of dark tore across the white in fearful stripes.

A hand reached his thigh, followed by the other… an arm a torso… a headless torso climbed his body and all he could do was watch in horror. A spinal cord grinned at him through a fleshy neck.

He screamed in terror and stabbed his sword into it. It sunk deep into the pithy flesh. The body jerked at the intrusion but didn't stop rising. It stood tall, just inches shorter than the Phantom. The chalky hands seemed to float above the body, reaching the neck and, discovering something missing, slowly examined the extension that had been thrust into it. It grasped the thing with both dead hands and pulled, inching it out ever so slowly by the blade.

It finally grabbed the hilt and pointed it at the Phantom and swung. The Phantom screeched and lunged. The body swung again wildly and missed. It sank to its knees as the Phantom watched and lifted up the lifeless head, its eyes closed and mouth clenched tight. The Phantom watched astonished as the body slowly wiped the water and scum from its neglected face and carefully placed the head back on its shoulders. The eyes blazed open.

"Can't get rid of me that easily can you? Eh?"


End file.
